Oliver Curry 

 

it took until my sixteenth year to twist the womanhood out of me.
unbinded in the boys’ fitting room,
my friend watching the door so no over-involved teachers
could glimpse my mediumly-endowed chest,
i clawed into my torso and shimmied out a rib.
like my very own god, my very own adam,
i took that white, curving seed of woman
into my own hands.
i left it behind a ceiling tile
alongside the empty beer bottles we found
stashed away freshman year.

pride made me lift my shirt at every chance.
i sucked in to raise each rib
and show the victory hollow.
friends’ fingers ran over taut skin
bumped by bone,
whispering along it like
a smooth sanded wood.
when they pressed hard enough,
they felt the spluttering of my heart,
but i stopped letting them—
it filled us both with the gasping
of being alive.
on my own, i’d snake a hand up my shirt
and press and press and press
until my heart stung from it.